


Can't Change What I Am (Not Even Your Human Assumptions Can)

by applejwoos (kenmarcadeblues)



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Coffee Shops, Confusion, Flashbacks, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Phone Calls & Telephones, Pre-Slash, Texting, Twilight References, Vampires, as usual everyone is gay and questionable, bestfriends!xiaodery, blood drinking almost happens but actually DOESNT, pov changes since i just Do That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24196189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenmarcadeblues/pseuds/applejwoos
Summary: Housemate #1 was a vampire.Housemate #2 was a hard-willed skeptic.Could I make it any more obvious?
Relationships: Wong Kun Hang | Hendery & Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun, Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas & Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun, Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 18
Kudos: 163
Collections: Weishen Fest: ANYTHING BUT HUMAN





	Can't Change What I Am (Not Even Your Human Assumptions Can)

**Author's Note:**

> prompt 018 of wfabh, which reads:
> 
> "Person A is a vampire. He’s indiscreet, leaving blood bags around the apartment and is the reason why there’s a basket full of sunscreens under the sink. Too bad his roommate, Person B, thinks he’s full of shit."
> 
> i had fun with this. maybe too much fun...you decide. hope you enjoy and jump on the xiaocas train if you haven't already :)

The young man leans forward in his chair until he can’t anymore. Forehead to the table, he declares: “I’m losing it.”

Having nothing better to do at this hour, Sicheng readjusts his apron, leans against the wall behind the counter, and watches curiously. He knows this guy—as much as a baristo can get to know a regular. This customer comes into HongDou 24 Cafe almost as often as Sicheng is scheduled for shifts, apparently preferring to focus on work or laptop shenanigans or whatever-the-hell at a window-side table in Sicheng’s workplace. His usual order consists of green tea (extra strong, half sweet) and a red bean croissant. He goes by DJ, which had puzzled Sicheng up until two minutes ago, when a voice from DJ’s phone referred to him as _Dejun_. 

Huh. 

Maybe DJ—Dejun—has used speakerphone mode before and Sicheng never noticed. Maybe at another point in time he has sounded as quietly distraught as he does now and Sicheng never heard. (The words _What’s up, you okay?_ bubble up in his mind but he’s _just a barista_ and that might be overstepping his bounds—and, well, he lacks the boldness it takes to interrupt a phone call in the first place.)

Maybe so, but it doesn’t matter. It’s twelve thirty-something in the morning, there’s a total of two other customers in the shop, and no orders need to be prepared. Sicheng is tuning in. 

“Look…” Dejun’s iPhone speaker comes to life again. Whoever is on the line sighs before saying something that has Sicheng’s ears prickling. “Have you considered that, just maybe, he _is_ actually a vampire?” 

_(What the hell?)_

The barista glances around to see if he has comrades in this eavesdrop journey, but alas, one customer is wearing AirPods and the other shows no sign of the gripping, immediate intrigue which comes from hearing the word vampire thrown around so casually. This is clearly not the first time Dejun and Speakerphone Guy have talked about This Business _._

_(Tuning the fuck in.)_

“Well, no. And why should I?” Dejun retorts. “Do _you_ think he is?”

“I mean...let’s go over the evidence again.”

Dejun sits up quickly and Sicheng almost jumps, blindly grabbing for a rag and half-pretending to wipe down a latte machine. “You call it evidence, I call it elaborate bullshit,” the man spits at his phone, a lilting voice with an added edge entirely unfamiliar to Sicheng, who only knows peppy, polite Dejun. 

“Whatever. Just mention it all, okay?”

“Mm. First of all, there are the bags.” 

  
  


_Flat, transparent, hand-sized, oblong._

_And everywhere._

_Upon first encounter, during which Dejun merely glanced at these peculiar pouches and continued stirring the noodles he was having for lunch, he had dismissed them as ugly canteens. Canteens would make sense, after all; his housemate frequented the gym and owned a bike. If you’re going to enter the apartment shining with sweat on an almost daily basis, he figured, then by all means hydrate._

_But after having too many opportunities to closely examine them, he had a different idea._

**Me** : [photo attached] 

Hey this definitely a blood bag, right? A fake one?

 **Donkey** : yes blood bag

 **Donkey** : why, where did you find that?

 **Donkey** : can’t confirm if it’s real unless I see it irl. oh god it’s used WASH YOUR HANDS PLZ

 **Donkey** : XIAO DEJUN HELLO?!?! TALK

 **Me** : Later, okay?

_And according to an (almost) expert, he was right._

_“Why do you leave these around?”_

_Dejun was about to repeat himself, unsure whether he was heard above Overwatch, when the game paused. Yukhei twisted his body around to look behind the sofa. “Huh?”_

_“These blood bags,” Dejun said, picking one up from a small assortment. Today’s location? Kitchen counter; a well-loved classic. “What‘s up with them?”_

_“Oh. Those. Right.” In all the time they’d known each other (ten weeks, but who was counting?) Yukhei had never sounded so awkward. Not even when they’d met, Yukhei having shown up with all his stuff clogging the hallway at ten in the morning instead of ten at night and sheepishly apologizing for leaving his brain at a friend’s house._ _Back then, pink had crept over Yukhei’s tan cheeks as he asked permission to enter his new home for the first time, and now that same curious tint was giving Dejun deja vu. “Um.”_

_“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”_

_“I just think they’re neat,” Yukhei said, blinking helplessly but not looking away._

_“Like a fetish?” Dejun mused._

_“No. No,” Yukhei insisted while waving one over-sized hand clumsily through the air, “not like that. It’s fun to drink stuff out of them.”_

_“What sort of stuff?” Dejun genuinely wanted to know, given the red residue inside the bags was nearly as dark as his maroon sweater. It definitely wasn’t alcohol; none of that type of pinch was in it. It smelled kind of tangy? Even savory, in a way._

_“You wouldn’t know it.”_

_“O-Okay, then,” Dejun said. Evasiveness fit bizarrely on the other man. “So, did you just order the bags online, or—”_

_“Wow, Xiao Dejun! Who knew you were so curious about me?”_

_Dejun furrowed his strong brows at his housemate's playfully arched ones. “I’m not. Just want to make sense of why the apartment is becoming a blood bank,” he retorted. It wasn’t supposed to be funny, but it nonetheless sent Yukhei into a fit of laughter, bright and disarming._

_Between giggles, the blond managed, “Sorry, I’ll clean up my drinking bags from now on, okay?”_

_Dejun nodded wordlessly and pretended that a cleaner apartment was what he wanted. And that there weren’t more questions eating at him now than five minutes ago._

_Overwatch resumed._

  
  


  
  


Speakerphone Guy hums. “The bags, that’s right. You tried to interrogate him.”

_(What kind of bags?_ Sicheng’s single brain-cell wonders as it pings around his head like a screensaver animation.)

“And got almost nothing.” Dejun shakes his head, and it’s endearing how animated he is during this call. He and Speakerphone Guy must be really close. “He admitted liking to drink out of blood bags but...he wasn’t having it. He didn’t want to talk about it, I don’t know.” 

_(Oh,_ Sicheng thinks, _duh. Blood bags, of course.)_

“He was _flustered_ at first, and with me he’s hardly ever like that. It was too strange. Didn’t know what to do, so I dropped it.” Dejun starts blushing deep, visible from a mile away (or at least across a good few tables), so for the moment Sicheng averts his eyes out of decency.

Who knew that a seemingly normal—if not mildly green tea obsessed—customer would be into some freaky dude? Whose name isn’t being said...is it a Voldemort situation or are they protecting his identity?

Apparently Speakerphone Guy knew of Dejun’s non-drink-related tastes because then he’s piping up, “You should’ve kept at it, Mr. Whipped. Harboring real blood bags is illegal. Your man could be a criminal.”

“What ever happened to ‘be gay, do crime’?” Dejun quips.

“If you think taking an essential medical resource applies to that, I’m gonna punch you. And if they truly _are_ real, and used, then it’s a _bio-hazard_ and I’m gonna punch _him_.” 

If Sicheng’s mouth is hanging open a little, it’s not consciously. He had been under the impression that a fellow confused young person was on the opposite end of Dejun’s call. But perhaps he’s wrong. Perhaps Dejun is speaking to someone who knows their shit. A doctor, a nurse? The (presumed) student is turning out to have quite the diverse social circle. 

Dejun fidgets uncomfortably. “Oh, yikes...okay, sorry! I take that back! Way back.” Then Speakerphone Guy mumbles something that makes him relax again, and even chuckle. “Yeah,” he replies to whatever Sicheng’s useless ears missed, “that. I could’ve made things awkward between us.”

“Curiosity kills the cat,” Speakerphone Guy says sagely. “Or, for you, sucks the human.”

Sicheng slaps a hand over his mouth and wills himself to stay quiet, for there’s only so many things in a near-empty coffee shop which can cause a barista to laugh out of nowhere.

  
  


  
  


_Seeing each other on campus was a rarity because of their conflicting schedules, but today Yukhei had dropped by much earlier than usual (hours before any of his evening classes, in fact) to turn in some late work. Fresh out of Music Theory, Dejun spotted his housemate and waved him over enthusiastically._

_And so they strolled together, side by side._

_Yukhei marveled at the sky as it melted into orange, head tilted just so. Hard angles of jaw and nose, soft curves of ears and lips; all of him as golden as the sun behind him. Refracted onto the lenses of his sleek sunglasses was a tiny replica of the sunset. To the left of_ _that living portrait, that modern-day Apollo, the hands of an amateur photographer itched. There were people who had the privilege of taking Yukhei’s picture, but Dejun wasn’t one of them._

_Somehow—yet not for the first time—his thoughts diverted to the curiosity in the cabinet under the bathroom sink. So instead of convincing Yukhei to stop walking and become a muse for two minutes, he found himself asking: “You know sunblock doesn’t stop you from getting tan, right?”_

_The sublime shot captured in his eye-line was relegated to memory. And it was his fault._ _For Yukhei had turned to him, giving him a quizzical look as they walked through a modest park which interrupted the urban sprawl. “I do know. Why?”_

_“N-Nothing. I was just, uh, thinking about your skin.” Which wasn’t a lie. Far from, unfortunately._

_“Oh.” Yukhei’s mouth twisted. He stared out at the buildings of the next block, the ones they’d pass on their way home. “Okay…” he said, assumptions sucking the usual buoyancy out of his voice._

_Panic fluttered between Dejun’s ears. “No! No, not like—I like your skin, it’s really nice just how it is, you’re so handsome and shouldn’t change any part of yourself! Melanin is natural and I don’t think society should be making a big_ thing _of it—“_

_“Good,” Yukhei said, effectively halting what was about to escalate into an anti-colorist speech, “because I agree.”_

_Dejun blinked up at him, surprised at both his statement and his ever quick-to-manifest smile. “Why keep a basket filled with bottles of sunblock, then?”_

_“Ah, that!” It was as if Yukhei was delighted due to average perception skills. “Well, I’m super photosensitive. Everyday I have to coat my whole body in the stuff or else my skin’ll peel off.”_

_“Oh.” Dejun gulped at the images (some bad; others, in a way, worse) manifesting in his head before banishing them back to the dark reaches where they sprung from. “My condolences. That...makes sense. Sorry for assuming.”_

_Yukhei just waved him off. “It’s all good. Sorry that I assumed, too.” When he paused, a suspicious grin overtook his face. “So, you think I’m ‘_ _so handsome’?”_

_“Doesn’t everyone?”_

_“But what does_ Xiao Dejun _think?” Yukhei inquired as his forearm knocked into Dejun’s shoulder._

_Did he have to be so big that shoulder bumps couldn’t be called that? Did Dejun have to be at what Yangyang had dubbed ‘the perfect height for forehead kisses’?_

_“He thinks Wong Yukhei is handsome, yes,” Dejun conceded with a blush. “Everything I said was true.”_

  
  


  
  


Dejun rolls his eyes and decides not to dignify his best friend’s questionable joke attempt with a response. “Honestly, I chose to believe him on the spot, but after seeing his pills...it could make sense. His photo-sensitivity might be a side-effect,” he instead says, recalling the information Kunhang had dumped on him as soon as he’d asked for specifics about Yukhei’s condition. 

“Mm, right,” comes Kunhang’s bright reply. Sometimes Dejun forgets what a chromosome is, so he’s probably proud, but joke’s on Mr. Perfect Medical Student—Dejun’s mind seizes on anything Yukhei-related like a steel trap. 

“But you know what doesn’t make sense?” Kunhang doesn’t sound as happy now. “Those pills themselves. I told you, there are no—“

“Pills to treat food allergies,” Dejun finishes, “yes, I know! But I also know what I saw, Xiao-Heng. Whatever he’s taking isn’t a placebo. It’d be difficult to fake an allergic reaction—and plus, Yukhei _wouldn’t_.” 

That last sentiment barrels past his lips against his better judgment, because maybe it’s wrong to imply that he knows Yukhei. He’s not naive enough to conflate knowing about someone with knowing them.

“Not saying he’d fake it. Highly doubt that, actually!” Kunhang clarifies before adding, more softly, “I believe you.” 

The smile pulling itself across Dejun’s lips should consider backtracking. It doesn't belong here. There’s nothing definitive to prove that his housemate _wouldn’t_ toy with him in the ritualistic, terrible way that parents do to get their children to believe in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. On particularly dispirited nights such as this, when both his insomnia and his one-sided conversations (along the lines of: _Is being a model seriously that boring? Is causing your housemate to question everything about you, including your motives, and slowly sucking the sanity from him with your very much metaphorical fangs fun for you, asshole?)_ are insufferable, Dejun comes to HongDou 24 for peace. And a midnight snack. 

(Though, sometimes, peace can be too much to ask.)

He taps the intensity of his thought-train into a familiar plastic tabletop. Like an island in the sea of assumptions and theories raging in his mind, one fact remains that he can cling to, steady and unmovable: _Wong Yukhei is not a vampire._

  
  


_As expected, the front door opened at around 8:30. Dejun examined the boiling hotpot and smiled to himself. Its broth was spicy, how he liked it, and a deep red, which would hopefully earn his housemate’s approval. “Hey,” he called out._

_“Hey!” came an enthusiastic reply, followed by the familiar sounds of the door being locked and a duffel-bag hitting the floor. A pink-faced Yukhei appeared in front of the counter, sweeping away his sweaty bangs and peeking into the kitchen. He sniffed in theatrically. “What’re you making?”_

_Usually when faced with this question, Dejun answered straight away—and then, if he was in a talkative mood, he might tell Yukhei how it felt to cook the particular thing, where he’d come by its recipe, some interesting ingredients...whatever came to mind. Yukhei was a great listener; responsive as if it were as much of a job to him as posing for a camera, yet attentive as if it were no work at all._

_That was one of the things Dejun knew about Yukhei: he had the ability to make you feel seen. To make you feel like he genuinely cares about you as a person (even if all you are to him is an annoying stranger handing out flyers for some new age religious group—yes, Dejun had been there, and yes, he’d had to pull the big, well-meaning lug away from that possible cult)._

_(And it was a crazy thought, but maybe he did care for anyone and everyone, just because he could. Maybe he was built as big as he is in order to contain his expansive heart.)_

_Whatever the case, whenever Yukhei spoke with people and looked at them, like_ really _looked, their eyes sparkled. Dejun figured he twinkled often, too; and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it._

 _But if he could make_ Yukhei’s _eyes sparkle...what then?_

_He couldn’t be sure, though it remained high on his agenda nonetheless. There were many ways to go about it, but going through the stomach was classic—especially when dealing with someone who believed food only existed outside of the apartment._

_That’s why today, instead of rambling, Dejun fetched a ladleful of soup (with a piece of flavorful garlic!) from his steaming steel vessel and whisked it over to his housemate. “Try it, you’ll like it.” At those words, Yukhei leaned in close and opened his mouth like an expectant baby bird. “Uh.”_

_“Feed me? My arms are too sore today.” The audacity of the proposal, combined with the man’s childish tone, caused Dejun to short-circuit._

_He blinked a few times. And then laughed. Very casually, for normal reasons. “Er, okay...fine,” he huffed, pulling himself together to tip the soup past Yukhei’s lips, “but I won’t hold your chopsticks later—”_

_He froze as the broth that he had spent hours on came spraying back at him._

“Oh my god,” _Yukhei said, the English phrase rushing off his tongue while watching Dejun use a paper towel to wipe his face and then the counter top. “I’m so, so sorry—wow, I’m so stupid.” The deep dejection in his voice was almost as shocking as the forbidden face-spritz. Almost._

_“No, it’s okay! It’s nothing.” Dejun blinked leisurely because his eyes felt slightly violated, but that only moved the residual soup deeper._

_Spice was in his tear ducts. He could feel it rioting there as his vision blurred. Fuck, was he crying?_

_He was. “Excuse me,” he said before making his way to the sink. Between water splashes, he cursed his upbringing for developing his love for peppers._

_He patted himself dry. “Guangdong, what a place,” he muttered loudly. He meant for Yukhei to hear so that they could start a conversation about the past and take their minds off the last couple minutes of their lives...but that wasn’t going to happen as long as Dejun was talking to a deserted counter._

_A zipping noise fluttered through the air. Then another. And another._

_He found Yukhei on the floor, rooting through the bag he’d brought to the gym and back. “Hey,” Dejun sighed down at the frantic form. “It happens, don’t feel bad. Truly.”_

_Sure, being spat on wasn’t ideal, was not at all the experience he was aiming for by offering his homemade dinner to the guy he kinda, sorta (dare he admit it?) liked—but that’s life. Yukhei was not perfect, Dejun himself wasn’t, either; and what about the hotpot broth? Had it been too hot? Too spicy_ ? _Just not good?_

_Suddenly, Yukhei sat back on his haunches and became still. He turned towards Dejun with empty hands. Empty, gray hands._

_Gray._

_After looking a bit higher, Dejun was in disbelief. The face that was always painfully pretty and put together from dawn until dusk, come work-out or heatwave or snowstorm, was a wreck. Yukhei’s_ _complexion_ _was ashen and dull. His skin itself was as wrinkly as dehydrated fruit. And he was tense, muscles taut beneath a quickly drying surface. “Dejun, I need—”_

_“Oh, shit!” Dejun yelped as his initial shock wore off. “Y-you’re, you, are—”_

_“I know,” Yukhei wheezed evenly, “but listen, I need—“_

_“An ambulance?”_

_“No, just.” Yukhei heaved his words, voice nothing but a rustle in his throat. “My room...desk, last drawer down...pills…”_

_Neither of them ran in the apartment for fear the downstairs neighbors would file a noise complaint; but that day, Dejun did. He ran like hell._

_Yukhei’s bedroom wasn’t uncharted territory, so its layout was familiar enough to him. They—large, green pills in a velvet sack—were where Yukhei had said. He was in and out; however, in circumstances where someone’s life hadn’t been in his hands, he would’ve ogled the blood bags scattered on every available surface, haunting the peripherals of his tunnel vision._

_When he returned to the living room, a thankfully still-conscious Yukhei was hunched over in pain. Now his skin was peeling and the brown of his irises looked washed out._

This is what a dying person looks like. 

_Dejun prayed that his voice wouldn’t shake. “Water?” Yukhei shook his head, so Dejun sat beside him and poured a few pills from the velvet sack._

_Yukhei took one from Dejun’s palm and dropped it into his mouth, sweaty Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. Without having to think, Dejun used a hand to cradle his housemate’s broad back. Yukhei was breathing steadily, if not a bit quickly for someone stationary._

_“Are you going to be okay?” They locked eyes as Yukhei nodded, and to Dejun’s relief, the color and vibrancy of the pair opposite him were already returning. “You’re sure?” Another nod. “Do you need anything else?”_

_A head-shake. “Thank you, you’ve done a lot,” Yukhei said, a little hoarsely. He smiled small with his big lips and Dejun suddenly felt like crying for non-spice related reasons._

_“I poisoned you, huh?”_

_“No, no. ‘Poisoning’ is when it’s on purpose. You’d never do that! At least, not to me, right?”_

_Dejun chewed at his bottom lip. “Right.”_

_“It’s not like I ever told you that I can’t eat garlic. I’m an idiot; I was...careless,” Yukhei stated with a sigh. “If only I’d remembered to put some pills back in the bag after cleaning it before…”_

_“Oh.”_

_Suddenly, one of Yukhei’s ridiculously large hands clamped down on Dejun’s shoulder, unintentionally freeing his soul from his body. He strained under the added weight as Yukhei shifted and gained enough leverage to ease into a standing position. Then Yukhei proceeded to pull Dejun up. “Thanks, again,” he said, squeezing the hand that was still in his. “Seriously.”_

_Once Yukhei had relinquished any type of physical hold on him (mental and emotional was a different ballgame, sadly), Dejun got the courage to gulp out, “Wait...wait.”_

_Things were coming together. He was_ realizing _. Whether it was the fact that his housemate (and crush?) Was Not Going To Die had allowed his brain to unscramble itself, or the sudden skinship had sent him into a sort of increased awareness, he couldn’t say. “Are you…?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“You want me to think you’re a vampire, is that it?”_

_“Out of_ nowhere?!” 

_It was a bold accusation, but Yukhei had no right to gawk like that. Sure, it was March and the only spooky aspect of life that month was the slight rent increase, but Dejun’s words were anything but unfounded._

Why else would you do the things you do and say the things you say? _“Out of nowhere, my foot! You supposedly drink out of blood bags, claim sunlight is bad for you, and happen to have a garlic allergy,” Dejun said, chopping the air once for each bizarre fact. “What the hell?”_

 _That was the part where he expected either a ‘Haha, gotcha!’, or even a ‘Yes, I’m a freak but it’s all mere coincidence because life is a joke.’ I_ _nstead, all he got was: “You’ve got me wrong. I want you to think for yourself.”_

_Leaving Dejun to grumble about crypticness, Yukhei wasted no time retreating to his room, duffel-bag tucked under one toned arm. “Enjoy your hotpot,” he said kindly._

_Before the day was over, though, they had one last conversation._

**Xuxi:** hi, forgot to say this: I hope you’re okay. After...that. It’s not easy to see

 **Me:** Thanks I guess? But you’re the one who could’ve died

 **Xuxi:** Would you miss me???

 **Me:** What kind of question...of course, idiot :|

 **Xuxi:** Cool just making sure

 **Me:** ...

 **Me:** So you’re in perfect condition now or?

 **Xuxi** : Yeah, wasn’t my first time around yknow ;)

 **Me:** Damn, what a life

 **Xuxi:** Lmao cheers I’ll drink to that bro

 **Me:** ??.?? 

**Me:** Should you be drinking after suffering like that

 **Me:** or after taking pills?

 **Xuxi:** It’s an American meme

 **Me:** Ah. so cultured

**Xuxi:** Always ;]

  
  


  
  


“Maybe the pills are illegal. Made underground. Black market, I don’t know.”

Kunhang’s snort sounds even stupider over the phone. “Black market food allergy pills? That’s as legit as artisan anti-garlic pills concocted by and for vampires.”

“Actually, no, it’s _more_ legit. Because vampires. Don’t. Fucking. Exist!” Dejun says too loudly. His face heats up while surveying the totally public cafe, which he doesn't have to himself. 

But thank _all_ the heavens that the two other customers in here at nearly 1am are either out of it or wrapped up in themselves. It’s not a scene if no one looks, right? 

Well, except for the barista that serves him more often than not. This guy’s skittish gaze is the only one in the vicinity of Dejun. He gives the employee a wry smile, but the concerned brunet only looks more uncomfortable. 

This is Dejun’s cue to vacate the premises.

Meanwhile, Kunhang has decided to continue to play vampire’s advocate. “Who’s to say?” 

“I can’t believe this.” Dejun shoves his laptop into its case. “Wong Kunhang forsaking _science_ in favor of touch-starved, horny netizen rhetoric?” he murmurs while swinging his backpack on. His chair squeaks as it’s pushed in and he cringes. “What is the world coming to?”

He clicks off speakerphone mode and puts the phone to his ear. It’s cold from the cafe's persistent air conditioning, but Kunhang’s laughter warms his ear as he steps toward the front doors. “Hey, now—oh, actually, say more! _Love_ hearing from Team Edward!” 

A sassy response is locked and loaded behind Dejun’s pursed lips, ready to fend off the attack on his dignity as he passes by the food display case, but all it takes for him to stand down is a surprise flare:

_“Good luck.”_

It was shot by none other than the barista, leaning forward over glass-housed bao and croissants. He—or ‘Sicheng’, as his colorful, sticker-covered name tag states—and Dejun only interact within the environment and context of the cafe. If they’ve talked about anything other than food and drink, it has been the typical sterilized friendliness expected of an employee-customer relationship. 

So why is Sicheng’s tone much too knowing, and expression the slightest too guilty, for ‘good luck’ to be a passing platitude?

_Oh, god,_ Dejun thinks. _Oh, fuck._ _You brainless bastard. He overheard, you speakerphone-using bitch. He knows about you and your stupid, convoluted struggles._

He knows...and yet he’s giving off the opposite vibes of, ‘Sir, this is a 24 hour cafe,’ which is what Dejun would no doubt be projecting if he had heard two dudes go back and forth about a mysterious third dude who’s trying to get cast in the Midnight Sun movie, granted there is one. (Stephanie Meyer _does not_ know when she’s done enough.) 

“Th—Thank you?” Dejun sputters. Sicheng says nothing else, just provides a tiny thumbs up as he continues on his way.

“Eh? Who?” Kunhang is asking nasally in his ear. 

“Not important.” As he pushes through the doors, the crosswalk sign immediately outside on the corner blinks on. He quickly steps out into the street. 

“Mm, okay, then...anyway. Listen.” Dejun hums to signal that his ears are open. “The essence of science is that what it knows is, at all times, very limited. The universe is vast and mostly unknowable. Still, even now. Always and forever. But everyday something new is discovered or learned or proved, and so our ‘facts’ have to be adjusted accordingly,” Kunhang lectures with care. “Get what I’m saying?”

“So…” Dejun starts, but then has to narrowly avoid getting necked by a stranger’s shoulder. It’s past one in the morning but people are still navigating sidewalks. Goddamn big cities with their narrow streets and their large population that never sleeps. In his family’s part of Guangdong, the unofficial curfew was 11pm. He pins his free arm to his side and squares his shoulders. “Given what we know, Vampire Yukhei _is_ a legitimate conclusion?”

“A legitimate _hypothesis_ , but, yeah. You got it.”

Dejun gets close to suppressing what he says next, in fear of it being absurd—although it can’t be any more so than the conversation they’ve been having for the past 25 minutes. Or the entanglement of feelings he has concerning his housemate. Or the life he leads while co-habitating with Wong Yukhei: man of three names; part-time student, part-time model; suspected vampire. But _fuck_ that last thing. “Is there a way to test it?” he asks. 

“I have an idea. Wouldn’t exactly prove anything, but it’d help. I hope.”

  
  


*********

  
  


Dejun mumbles to himself, keeping in time while strumming his guitar. “Da-da, dadadada, da-da, da-di, di...” 

His phone buzzes on his desk. A single message lays horizontal on its lock screen: 

**[Donkey]**

confirmed authentic blood bag

And as much as he wants to work through the melody that’s gripping his fingers and lips alike, and decide where it should be placed (post-chorus? bridge?), it’s too late. He’s shifting out of music-brain mode and there’s no way he can unread that text. 

This new song can wait. (But not too long, because it’s due next week.) 

**Me** : Oh my god

**Donkey** : but! that’s not all!

**Donkey** : there was actual human blood in it, A positive, pretty freshly harvested approx. 2 wks ago 

**Me** : UMM FUCK??

**Me** : WAIT I’M A POSITIVE, WHAT

**Donkey** : SHIT SHOULD I COME OVER

**Donkey** : OR CALL THE COPS

**Donkey** : BOTH ?

**Me** : NEITHER JUST HOLD ON A MINUTE, I WILL CONFRONT

**Donkey** : HHH YOU SURE THATS A GOOD IDEA

**Donkey** : KUN WANTS TO KNOW WHERE THE BAG IS FROM WHAT DO I DO

**Donkey** : DAMN IT DEJUN!!! CALLING IN 10 MIN IF YOU DON'T RESPOND :(

  
  
  


“Hey,” Yukhei calls as his knuckles grace Dejun’s bedroom door, “can we talk? Unless you’re busy?”

The sweet, steady notes of a guitar had ceased filling the tiny apartment for a good three minutes straight, so he’d figured he would catch the music student at a moment when he wasn’t super preoccupied. Then again, maybe Dejun is taking a well-deserved break and Yukhei is interrupting _that._ Maybe this was a bad time—

The door opens with a soft creak. “Absolutely, that’s exactly what we need to do,” Dejun says in lieu of a greeting.

When Yukhei tries to come in, he gets body-blocked. “Oh, uh—everything okay?”

“Honestly? No.” Dejun stands centered in his doorway and looks up at Yukhei with a hard expression, pretty eyes sharp with judgement.

“Did I do something?” Yukhei asks with a gulp. “Feels like you’ve been avoiding me on purpose.” 

(They both know it’s not just a feeling. Having conflicting schedules is one thing, but they share an apartment. Making your dinner at an earlier time and suddenly despising the living room is pretty obvious.)

Dejun scratches the wall and avoids his gaze. “Look, I don’t usually go behind people’s backs or take things without asking, but you _frustrated_ me,” he admits, “so I...took one of your bags and got it analyzed in a lab.”

Yukhei’s heart leaps. “Really? You did?” Why his housemate has access to a lab, he has zero clue. But it’s a welcome surprise, considering how Yukhei couldn’t bring himself to admit that _blood_ was what was inside his blood bags the first time they’d talked about his drinking habit. 

For longer than expected, Dejun’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly. “You’re happy?” he asks incredulously.

“Well, yeah, I mean—you _know,_ don’t you?” Science is indisputable. Blood is blood. And people don’t drink other people’s blood unless...

“Please just say what you mean.” 

“I’m not human. And you _know_ ,” Yukhei insists. _Doesn’t he?_

Dejun chuckles, except it’s not snort-happy and light like Yukhei is familiar with. “Stop bullshitting. No matter what you do or say, you _will not_ fool me.”

“I’m not trying to fool you!” Yukhei exclaims dejectedly.

“Actions speak louder than words.”

“Why else would I be drinking blood, then?”

“Never seen you actually drink it.” Unfortunately, the mortal has a point here. “As for a reason you have human blood around...serial killer.”

“Excuse me?”

“It was my blood type…”

“This isn’t a crime drama.”

“This isn’t Twilight, either,” Dejun hits back unflinchingly, and if Yukhei was any less determined to be taken seriously, he’d laugh. (The Twilight series was a more modern take on his kind, yet it was still _way_ off in its representation. Like driving the wrong way on an eight lane freeway—the effort is kinda there, but the execution and direction is all wrong.)

“It was purely coincidence! I drink all types, I’m not picky, and I don’t have a thing for you…” Yukhei trails off, before mumbling, “Well, n-not like _that_ —”

If Dejun hears that last thing, he disregards it. It’s simultaneously a relief and a disappointment. “What the fuck are you doing with this blood, anyway?”

“Drinking it, like I said.” Dejun’s lips don’t move, but his eyes are loud and clear: ‘Try again.’ Yukhei sighs with his whole chest and considers pulling his hair out. “Why is it so difficult for you to believe me?”

“Vampires aren’t real.”

“I’m standing right here.”

He’s standing in front of the man who gave him permission to enter this apartment; who speaks his mind often, and does so with conviction; whose dedication to music, the thing he loves most, knows no bounds; who has a resting _coldface_ but smiles with his whole body; who saved Yukhei’s life and probably would, again, in a heartbeat. 

But right now this man is tsking at him, as unconvinced and line-mouthed as ever. “Even if they _were_ out there, you wouldn’t be one of them.”

“Why not?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

“Let me in and you can tell me more?”

Finally noticing how his body is leaning all the way on one side of the door frame, Dejun straightens up and makes the decision to trust Yukhei, (wrongly) suspected serial killer, alone in an enclosed space. “This isn’t the part where you kill me, right?” he asks as he waves Yukhei inside. 

“There’s no part like that in our story," Yukhei assures him.

  
  
  


Dejun’s bed _(with an unfairly comfortable memory foam mattress)_ is where they settle. Like a living Wikipedia page, Yukhei then proceeds to set the record straight and shut down all of Dejun’s profoundly human assumptions.

_Super pale? No, we come in all shades. Sleeping in coffins was only a thing back when we were out in the open and humans discriminated against us; they claimed that beds should be reserved for those who need sleep to stay alive. I know modern technology because I got turned five years ago, not all of us are hundreds of years old. Likewise, there’s no way a student in this economy could get rich and afford a big, cool mansion by saving up for such a short time. We are repelled by silver, which was used in old mirrors, but isn’t in today’s mirrors. Digital cameras are much stronger than film cameras. Being goth is a choice, and it’s not for me._

That is, until his housemate’s last stand: “But your teeth! They’re all perfect and your incisors seem normal.”

“Mm, actually...” Yukhei reaches back into his mouth and pulls off the molded plastic covering his fangs, Dejun’s curious gaze palpable on him in each movement. “Fang caps,” he explains briefly, before shoving them into his jeans pocket.

Fixated, Dejun waits on Yukhei’s too-wide smile. 

Seconds turn into half a minute. 

Yukhei licks over his disappointing, humanly-pointy ‘incisors’. His big show and tell is falling flat on its face. “Uh, usually they’re out right away—I don’t—I’ve never done this before.” _Revealing your true form to any human is extremely risky,_ Ten’s voice gently reminds from his mind. _Unless they’re someone you trust, someone who matters, it’s not worth it._ But Dejun is. “Hold on, lemme get a bag. If I’m blood-thirsty, they’ve gotta show.” 

He goes to get up but a hand grips his arm. “Wait, ah, um—here!” Dejun bursts, which seems nonsensical until he starts slapping the side of his neck with his other hand. “Drink up! A-Positive!”

And wouldn’t you know, Dejun’s neck veins are lovely and plump, so much flow because he’s young and healthy and he sings, he sings every now and then in the shower and when he’s composing but he must’ve sang more at one point, before they met probably, because there is _so_ much—

Yukhei shivers. Then, like always, comes a moment of darkness.

Once he regains full consciousness, Dejun is yelling.

A ringtone harmonizes with him from somewhere on the bed, causing them both to jump. Dejun grabs for his phone and attempts slow breaths before answering the call. “Oh, hi! Yeah, all good!” he chirps, upbeat to a fault. Yukhei can _smell_ how wild his pulse is. “Definitely, 100 percent not gonna murder me, promise. I’ll explain later, okay? Okay. Love you.”

“Your mom?” Yukhei lisps. He doesn’t usually speak with his fangs out. 

“Best friend,” Dejun replies shakily. 

Yukhei hums. He’ll have to think about how much is safe for Dejun to ‘explain’, but there are more immediate conversations that need to be had. “Why’d you do that?”

“Huh?” Despite it not being a real word, Dejun manages to under-enunciate it. 

“Slap yourself.” Yukhei pauses to swallow and center himself. “And insist I feed on you.” 

“D-Didn’t wanna give you a chance to put on fake shit or whatever...”

“Mm, I see. But don’t do it again, okay?” Being blood-thirsty is one thing. Being blood-thirsty for an actual person is not ideal, since it's an altogether unfamiliar situation for a bag-baby (definition: 1. a younger vamp who's never had to hunt thanks to modern advancements; 2. a term coined by Ten's ancient ass, unsurprisingly).

He watches his words sink into Dejun slowly. The human nods, eventually, but doesn't look away from Yukhei's mouth. Looking away is proving to be an impossible task—that, or it’s just lower on his agenda than the gargantuan task of accepting that not only do vampires exist, but he’s been living under the same roof as one for a little more than eight months. “Oh my god. Oh, my god. Oh my god," he murmurs, a chant for sanity. 

“You okay?”

Dejun scoots backwards and lowers his head down onto his pillow, icy-blond hair splayed out around him like a halo. Flattening and folding against the wall, Yukhei gestures to the other man’s legs, which then extend gratefully. “I don’t know. I know nothing.” Dejun stares critically at the ceiling.

Yukhei laughs fondly at his favorite pair of furrowed eyebrows. “Ah, sorry...I wanted to tell you. Really badly.”

“Then why didn’t you?” 

“It’s hard because I can’t _say_ what I am. The word.” 

“Vampire?”

“Yes. It’s against our nature. We have a Code.” The rules of being a vampire don’t have a name with an exact translation, but it’s better than telling a mortal what they are in actuality: a 3,000 year old covenant with the universe. Dejun’s brain has enough to work through as it is. 

“So...were you trying to give me hints?” Dejun is peering at him down the bed, the angle causing a slight double chin to form under his delicate face. 

“Well, not—”

The mattress (along with Yukhei’s insides) quakes as the intrigued human sits up with near-whiplash speed and asks, “Did you purposely try to die?”

Yukhei has to wonder whether anyone else in his life has ever tried to give him this much credit. “Unfortunately, no. No planning; just forgetfulness, wanting to accept your nice offering, and a dead olfactory sense...”

“You can’t smell?”

“Can’t breathe, either.”

Whatever distance that had managed to form between them on this single-sized bed gets conquered by Dejun’s arms for the sole purpose of pushing Yukhei. “Shut the fuck up,” the violence-starter says, like an order.

Yukhei almost obeys. “No, for real—I had to learn how to fake it.”

_“Nah,”_ Dejun scoffs, the American expression endearing in its sudden appearance. “No way.”

“Feel,” Yukhei says, forsaking the business of lint-picking ( _who uses a comforter this fluffy?_ ) so he can pat his chest. All the muscles within, which are under his will and control, grind to a halt. “Come on.” 

And with that, Dejun re-enters Yukhei’s personal space. A hand presses over a silk button-up. Human heartbeats and blood flow disrupt Yukhei’s stillness. 

“Ah!” Dejun is enraptured; a child watching a magic trick except the trick here is that there’s nothing happening and it’s not a trick. “Wow, you don’t lie, it’s quite…” He nods succinctly. “Your chest is as thick as I expected,” he quips.

Yukhei blinks. Dejun blinks back faster, to the tune of the blush working up his high-set cheeks.

“Really?” Yukhei inquires.

“Y-Yes.”

“Wanna join me at the gym sometime?” It’s a short and sweet substitute for, ‘Why are you so beautiful, even when questioning the nature of your reality? And how often do you look at my chest? What is _my_ reality?’

Yukhei looks down and the other man’s hand is still there, on his chest, until it’s not. 

“Are you asking me out?” Dejun chokes.

“Kinda.” Yukhei has been thinking since his latest brush with _disappearing from all planes of existence_ that his housemate deserves nothing but honesty from him going forward. For as long as they have the privilege of knowing each other. “Is it gay to want to be your personal trainer?” 

Dejun answers sensibly despite how much he’s fidgeting. “Only if you like me.” 

“Damn. Guilty as charged.”

There’s nothing sensible about the way Dejun can contort his facial features. “Eh?!”

It’s so hard not to cackle at flared nostrils, and yet Yukhei somehow manages. “You heard me.”

  
“Get out of my room,” Dejun orders, waving dramatically. “I need to process. Everything.” When Yukhei frowns at him and doesn’t move, he lets out an impassioned (yet short) scream. This is his overload point. Understandable.

“I’ll, uh, just be a room away,” Yukhei sing-songs as he traipses to the bedroom door. “Yes to a gym date, Junjun?”

And he won’t try to get his hopes up, or put words in someone else’s mouth, or project feelings in their head, but there might be something. 

Something about how Dejun takes his face out of the pillow he shoved it into, just to tell him, “Sure,” while their eyes could meet. How his voice is sitting a bit higher right now. How his smile is mild, yet still takes most of his face to perform. How he’s smiling in the first place.

Good thing The Code doesn’t forbid human-vampire relationships. Explicitly.

It’s worth a try.

**Author's Note:**

> i think...they will be boyfriends :)))
> 
> in case anyone wanted to know, ten is yukhei's maker, aka the person who turned him. yukhei lived with ten before moving into this apartment. kinda got attached to this au please do not look at me


End file.
